


For the Longest Time

by xXCrimmieXx



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: "Ugly" Lead, Concepts of Beauty, F/M, My Canon, My Favorite Husband, My First AO3 Post, Written As I Play Again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 17:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17064035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXCrimmieXx/pseuds/xXCrimmieXx
Summary: Daughter to an Orcish mercenary, Urzula had become used to the long journeys as her father travelled from city to city, country to country to earn their coin. However, when he was felled in battle she must face the aftermath and the start of her new journey through Skyrim.





	For the Longest Time

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome one and all to the frightfully put together canon for one of my current characters! She's my favorite. Warning for those who are here for some quick Argis love, it's gonna take a bit. I'm writing this as I play through with this character (again) and you have to be a minimum of level 20 to become Thane in Markarth, so Argis is a goal we are actively working toward.
> 
> I hope you'll stay and read through her story anyway and I promise that we'll get to the Dream HusbandTM eventually!

A deep pounding woke her. It took a moment to realize that the incessant pain was throbbing inside her own head, and a few more to realize that with her hands bound as they were, she couldn’t heal herself. Slowly, a memory returned of bandits screeching as something heavy collided with her skull. She never saw it coming; she had been distracted, but who wouldn’t be after –

“Hey, you, you’re finally awake.” Her head snapped up quickly causing the man’s face to swim in front of her. A, likely tall, blond sat across from her, clad in blue armor and also bound. Not guarding me, then, her mind unhelpfully supplied. She tried to force a response, but her mouth was swollen and dry, but the man continued unheeded. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us… and that thief over there,” he jerked his head toward that man bound next to him.

An irate expression on his face, the dark-haired man spat back, “Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy.” His mouth formed a tight line as the first man, almost definitely a Nord, she thought, rolled his eyes. “If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.”

She could feel her brows raise, both at the man’s easy admission of his guilt and the way he cut of a reply from his new conversation partner to address her. “You there, you and me – we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!”

A heavy sigh brought her focus back to the large blonde, “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” The guardsman driving the wagon barked at them unsuccessfully, but her attention was now firmly focused on the reality of the situation. How had she gotten here, in this wagon? Why was she bound and where was her bow? Where were her clothes? She took in the image of her ragged apparel. Had the soldiers taken them when they found her or had the bandits already –

“General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!”

“Good, let’s get this over with.”

To the sound of the thief’s fevered prayers, her mind raced despite the continual throbbing it brought on. A headsman on call is never a good sign. What are the chances that I’m being taken to a healer and they needed to conserve wagon space? The grim set to the blue-clad soldier’s face confirmed that the odds were increasingly low.

A young voice spoke out as they rounded a corner, “Who are they, Daddy? Where are they going?” She could recall a similar time, long ago in the Imperial City as the guards dragged two men away who her father had only just pulled through the city gates. She half-expected the boy’s father to reply with ‘bad men, Mouse’, but instead he tried to coax his son inside, obviously knowing what was to come. “Why? I want to watch the soldiers!” Her heart ached.

“Go inside the house now.”

“Yes, Papa.”

As she watched the door swing shut behind the boy, the wagon jerked to a halt. “Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!” The dark-haired thief’s voice cracked. “Why are we stopping?” She sensed the Nord reply, but his voice was drowned out by the deep breath she forced herself to take. How did this happen? And with that, they stepped down, single file.

“Empire loved their damn lists,” the Nord’s mouth twitched up into a half-smile as he landed in the dirt next to her. The severe looking woman ahead of them called out for the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak. It wouldn’t take a scholar to realize that he was the leader of these blue-armored soldiers slated for execution.

An uprising then. Wonderful.

“Ralof of Riverwood!” Her Nord companion sauntered away, seemingly unfazed by their collective fate. “Lokir of Rorikstead!” She flinched as he took off running. With his lifeless body bleeding out in the street the man holding the roster flipped the pages back, seemingly finished, and finally turned to her.

“Wait, you there.” He met her eyes, “Step forward.” Awkwardly, she shuffled toward him as best she could with her arms wrapped around themselves. Movements were difficult at best. “Who are you?” The angry Redguard woman noticed her then as well and crossed her arms expectantly.

“…Urzula, sir. My father is – was –”

He cut her off, “You from one of the strongholds, Orc? How did you end up here?” She bit her tongue. “Captain,” he turned to his harsh-toned compatriot, “what should we do? She’s not on the list.”

The captain huffed, “Forget the list, she goes to the block.” A tightly-held breath choked out of her as the man prodded her along behind his superior. Her eyes swam and the pounding in her head doubled as the leader, the man they called General Tullius, dressed down his adversary as he stood bound and gagged. She barely registered when the priestess began their last rights, but watched sadly as a man stepped forward, obviously unwilling to prolong what had by then fallen securely into the inevitable category. His head rolled toward her, unseeing, as the headsman lifted his axe off of the block. Time moved slowly and quickly all at once. Mere moments passed before her neck was pressed firmly against the wet surface of the chopping block, but she could feel the notches in the wood under her skin. There were eight notches leading, one after another, down the front of the headsman’s armor and a hastily repaired rip in the fabric of his hood. He lifted the axe too far behind him, a mistake for which she remembered her father often berating his inferiors. She closed her eyes.

But the blow never came. The ground shook and without the use of her hands, she felt herself falling off of the block. Her head hit the ground hard and her vision swirled again, the light shifting from green to red. She managed to lift herself onto her knees and the Nord man, Ralof was beckoning to her.

“Hey, Orc! Get up!” He reached out and pulled her to her feet, “Come on, the gods won’t give us another chance!”


End file.
